George squares his shoulders and lowers his voice.

– Opportunity, boys, that’s what a thief looks for. Turn your back for a second, your property will be gone. Always lock up your bike. It’s not just a toy, it’s a responsibility.

Paul rubs the spot where the rock tagged him.

– Whatever.

George peels away the bright blue backing from the patch, careful not to touch the sticky underside, and picks up the innertube. Pressing the patch over the hole, using his thumbs to smooth away any air bubbles trapped under it, he looks at Andy.

– What’re you gonna tell him?

Andy stares at the patch, the violence in his head finally fading as he draws blood from his cheek. Why does he have to think about that kind of shit? It’s not like he’s like Paul. Paul likes to fight. But fighting sucks. Getting punched sucks. And hurting someone else, that almost sucks worse.

George kicks him in the shin.

– Dude, what are you gonna tell dad?

Andy shrugs.

– Dunno.

Paul unclamps his legs and tumbles to the ground, bracing with his arms as he lands.

Andy flips him off.

– Nice move, grace.

Paul doesn’t move, just lays there with his eyes closed, his face suddenly pale and sweaty, skin drawn tight over his forehead.

George is focused on the tire and doesn’t notice.

Andy does.

– You OK?

Paul doesn’t move, just breathes deeply.

Andy steps closer.

– Migraine?

Paul opens his eyes, wipes the sweat from his face. He sits up slowly.

– I’m fucking fine. You’re the one with problems. Better tell your dad you locked it up.

Andy bends to pick up the patch backing that George discarded.

– He won’t believe someone could steal it from in front of the store if it was locked up.